The Distance Between Us
by Rain Minstrel
Summary: Long after the Quest has ended, Aragorn is troubled by a darkness only he and Legolas can sense. In this final war, their love is the only pure thing left - or is it? (A/L slash). Ch7: Aragorn does what he forbade Legolas to do.
1. Dreams of Legolas

This is my first attempt at fanfic. I was inspired by all the stuff I have read here! I started this story after FotR came out, and now I'm continuing it again. I am much more confident this time 'round, and I even have the ending worked out! There is no slash here as yet, but if/when there is, I will let you all know very clearly. I am not very good with LotR trivia, but for the purposes of my story, it is after the deaths of Merry and Pippin, and Legolas is the last Elf left on Middle Earth. 

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Dreams of Legolas

It was always dark when the dreams came. On moonless nights, Aragorn son of Arathorn felt the light of the stars go out. He lit plenty of candles, throughout the palace and in his own chambers, but it was if he had suddenly become blind. Blackness pressed against his wide-open eyes, and darkness lay heavy on his heart. He was alone. Aragorn could not bear to have another see him in the grip of these dreams, not even his once-Elven wife.

They were beginning. Seated cross-legged on the bed, Aragorn's heart began to pound. His breathing grew frantic. His muscles cramped into hard knots of pain. The sound of the blood roaring in his head blocked out all other noise. Sweat beaded on his forehead to slide unheeded into his open, unseeing eyes.

__

BLOOD.

The voice in his head was liquid and hoarse all at once.

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I WANT A SACRIFICE.

Images, then, that flickered through his mind so quickly that he did not have the time to register each on before it was replaced by another. His subconscious caught them all, however. Legolas, cold on a bier. Legolas, the smooth skin of his throat marred by the sticky red-black blood that oozed from a terrible gash. Legolas, staked to the ground with a thin, treacherous blade through his heart. 

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THE LAST LIVING ELF SHALL LIVE NO MORE.

No! screamed Aragorn's mind. His protest was cut cleanly off, as if a door had been slammed shut on them. More images rushed in, and like a drowning man, Aragorn was powerless against the waves. Terror. Pain. Torture. Guilt. Betrayal. Dread. These visions were agonizingly slow. A small part of his mind continued to echo _'no! no! no!' _but it seemed to Aragorn that he no longer knew what it was that he was protesting against. His thoughts were no longer his own, and all that existed was terror. 

__

THAT WAY LIES MADNESS.

The voice reproached his attempts of denial. The visions faded slowly, almost gently, into entombing darkness. 

__

YOU ARE THE KEY.

There was light, then, a molten fire of white which engulfed Aragorn's vision. The brightness grew into pain that bordered on unbearable before it suddenly vanished. But in the after-image, Aragorn fancied that he could see the face of Legolas, contorted in rage, terror and agony.

*****

Aragorn awoke, his body slick with sweat. He was still seated cross-legged on the bed. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes, and waves of nausea washed over him. He retched painfully, bringing up bile. Gasping for breath, he ran a trembling hand across his eyes.

Each of the candles he had lit the night before had gone out. They always did, during these dreams, but Aragorn lit them all the same. He did not think he could face complete darkness, whether he could see the candles burning or not. 

He never remembered what it was he dreamed of. Only an un-named fear and the after-sickness of the dreams remained. Sometimes, fleeting images came to him, of hobbits, and Gandalf the Grey, of Gimli the dwarf. Of an Elf, lithe, graceful, beautiful - of Legolas. Aragorn shook his head. Frodo and Gandalf and Sam had long left for the West. Pippin and Merry, always the young and mischievous pair in his memory, had succumbed at last to the fate of mortals. He, Gimli and Legolas were the last of the Fellowship. Yet he was busy with the duties of a king, and Gimli and Legolas travelled widely over Middle Earth, often to lands too distant for communication. 

With belated relief, Aragorn saw that it was dawn in the Eastern sky. A faint wash of grey had replaced the oppressive black. Slowly, unsteadily, he began to wash and dress himself. By the time Aragorn buckled Anduril to his side, he was once again the impassive, controlled King. Only the slightest sign of hesitation in those marble-grey eyes betrayed him.

*****

Aragorn was seated on the High Throne as the court of Gondor assembled around him. He was not interested, though. His thoughts were turned inwards, and his gaze on his subjects was unblinking. Aragorn felt as if he was seeing through a curtain of black light. And woven through their voices was an unrelenting roar, like the sound of merciless waves. 

The dreams came more often now, and not only at the dark of night. Truth to tell, Aragorn could scarce tell when he was dreaming and when he was waking anymore. The same voice, declaiming the same words, gave him no peace. He still could not make out the images, but a grave fear grew in his heart for the safety of Legolas. 

He had not seen the Elf in over a decade, and only infrequently since his marriage to Arwen. Aragorn closed his eyes and smiled as he recalled thoughts of Legolas. His slender, yet strong hands drawing his bow, the light that shone unquenchable from him, and the richness of his voice raised in Elven song were sorely missed by Aragorn. A quiet contentment grew in Aragorn as his thoughts turned fully to the Elf. Aragorn remembered his clear grey eyes, bright with the innocence of youth and ancient with the wisdom of millennia. His fingers remembered the incredible silkiness of those strands of silver-blonde hair, and the unflawed smoothness of Elven skin.

When he thought of Legolas, it seemed to Aragorn that the darkness over his vision and the roaring voice in his head troubled him less. Yet, he could not shake the feeling that his old friend was being threatened by something deep and terrible. The dreams had made what rest Aragorn could get brief and unsatisfying, and he had not slept for four nights. His instincts screamed of danger, but his exhausted senses fumbled unsuccessfully with the idea. The memories of Legolas, however, shielded him temporarily with a glowing brightness, and the weary King was lulled into sleep by memories of happier times. 

*****

My heart aches to see him so. What is this torment that weighs upon him, that he will not lighten by sharing with me? He thinks to hide it, with dismissing remarks and increasing distance from me. From us all. He no longer shares my bed, but sleeps alone in the royal chambers. He bids us good night early, and does not join us again until nearly noon. Yet it is plain to see that he is getting no rest. His face is grey and haggard. Often he sits, as if blind and deaf, for hours, lost in his own thoughts.

Is this the curse of men? Does age, stealthy and treacherous, stalk this love of mine? Then my heart does not just ache, it trembles with the very fear of the earth. There is no cure for old age, no Elven remedy to relieve his suffering. After all the battles, the dangers and the quests that he has been through, will fate decree that it will be Age that brings this warrior king to his knees? Oh, Aragorn, Aragorn. The gap between life and death is vast indeed for me, who has grown and lived with the promise of eternity before her. I am not afraid of death, only of the terrible, aching loneliness of not knowing your arms around me, of not feeling your soft breath in my hair. Stay a little, Aragorn, I pray. I could not bear losing you just yet.

And yet I feel him slipping further from me with every setting of the sun. He is more removed, more distant. I could almost hope it was illness, that could come, and be suffered, and be cured. But Aragorn is seldom ill, and treats himself speedily and well when he is, so that he is never burdened by it. Never have I seen him like this. There is a strangeness to him, a reluctance to be touched and to be with people. He does not seem himself. No, rather it is as if some great darkness has claimed him for its own, robbing him of strength and will.

I fear this darkness is the curse of mortals. 

*****

Aragorn felt disorientation when he woke, and the warmth of another hand in his own. Almost, he whispered another name, but then his eyes opened to catch the beautiful form of Arwen sitting by him. 

"Arwen," he sighed. He thought that her lips trembled just a bit, as she smiled down at him. 

"How are you, my lord?" she asked. There was such sadness and such hope in her eyes. That confused him.

"Rested," he answered truthfully, for his dreams had not been dark and sinister, but filled with light and laughter, and the singing of an old friend. 

"That is well, then," Arwen replied gravely. "You have seemed much wearied and unlike yourself these past few months."

Aragorn, troubled, did not answer. Arwen knew these moods of her husband, and did not press him further. Furthermore, her heart dreaded the answer she might hear. _Time, Arwen, catches up with all mortals._ He did not speak these words, but she looked upon his face and knew them to be true. They sat together, hand in hand, while the afternoon light, the colour of tea, washed over them both. Arwen was illuminated by it, and it seemed to Aragorn that even without her Elven light, his wife was lit by a joyous glow. For it was true that Arwen was not yet weary of life, mortal life though it might now be for her. But her heart faltered when she saw the scattering of silver in the dark strands of her husband's hair, and the few lines etched deep upon his brow.

"It is late afternoon," said Aragorn suddenly, with some surprise.

"Yes," replied Arwen. "You fell asleep at the council, and I had you moved to our chambers."

Looking around, Aragorn realised that indeed he was in the chambers that he had once shared with Arwen, before the terror of the dreams had driven him away. 

Arwen looked intently at him as he struggled to place his thoughts.

"Aragorn," she said, then. "Are you well, my love?"

He turned away then, but she reached up with her free hand to cup his chin. She brought his face around, so that grey eyes met grey eyes, and there was no distance between them. 

Aragorn fought to remain unmoved. There was too much that he did not understand, too many emotions and fears brought by the dreams. He did not want to infect Arwen with his unease. He drew down the mask which he had been forging for over two centuries, a mask of control and strength and impassiveness that he wore more comfortably than he did his true expressions.

Arwen, however, knew Aragorn as she knew the trees and the wind and the earth. He was part of her, as the moon was part of the night. She saw through his mask as easily as through a paper lantern, and she felt despair.

"I feel a darkness riding on the wind," he confessed, slowly, then. "But I think my senses deceive me, for I am the only one who does. Perhaps it is just my darkness that is being foretold. It is as if the light in the world is forsaking me, and all has turned to dark."

"I will always be the moon in your night, my love. Never fear the darkness when I am here," whispered Arwen, and she put her arms around him and held him fast in her embrace.

Aragorn did not tell her that it was the moonless nights that he feared most.

*****

That night Aragorn was again untroubled by dreams, yet sleep eluded him. His rest earlier that day had done much to refresh him, and his thoughts were clearer than they had been for a long time. Moonlight fell on the sleeping form of Arwen, as he paced the room. Her eyes were closed in sleep, now that she could no longer walk the paths of Elven dreams. There was only one Elf left on Middle Earth who had the power of old. 

Legolas. It seemed to Aragorn that his friend was connected to the dreams that were haunting him, but he could not see how. He tried thinking back over the last months, but found them blurred, as if nothing but a half-forgotten memory. Legolas. There was something about Legolas….

Aragorn shook his head in frustration. The chambers, although the largest in the palace, seemed confining to his restless spirit. He paced a minute longer, before resolve gripped him and he headed for the door. It was made of sturdy oak, bound in steel bands and etched with Elven blessings. Aragorn had made sure that it opened outwards from the room, so that if force was applied from the outside, it would work against the movement of the doors. He had also endeavoured to keep it well oiled, but recently, such things as the oiling of a door might slip his mind. So it creaked as he opened it, despite his silent curses.

The lone guard gave Aragorn a slight nod as he passed. The people of the castle were well used to their king wandering the halls at night, unable to sleep or working at one of the seemingly constant problems wich cropped up within a kingship. The room he sought was just beneath the roof. Its ceiling slanted, but did not leak. Aragorn was the only one who came here still – Arwen refused to come near it, and none other had the privelege.

The room was twenty-five strides from one end of the room to the other – Aragorn had paced it countless times. Despite its size, the room was unfurnished but for an undecorated chair and a plain table.

Aragorn was beside it in an instant, hands hovering over the lone object that rested on the table. A black orb, two handspans in diameter, crackled as if lightning originated from within.

The Palantir. Mastered by Aragorn at the fall of Saruman, it had given him counsel over the years which had allowed him to remain atop of the problems and enemies which faced Gondor. He hoped its counsel would serve him now.

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FIRE.

BLOOD.

SACRIFICE.

Aragorn started as the words filled his mind. They seemed familiar. The sense of darkness and threat grew upon him again, stronger than ever before, as he thought of his friend. His instincts sensed that it was not him, but Legolas, that was in danger from this darkness. 

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Legolas must flee, his instincts told him. _It is no longer safe to be an Elf on Middle Earth. He must seek refuge in the West without delay!_

Aragorn's mind reeled. He trusted his instincts more than reason or thought, honed as they were from his years in the Wild. They had saved his life more than once. 

"I will send Legolas a message," he said aloud, "and tell him of these dreams of mine. For I sense now that a terrible darkness will befall him and the world, should he not join the other Elves in the West."

Yet Aragorn could not but feel a tearing agony in his heart, as he contemplated the idea of never seeing Legolas again. The same curtain of darkness fell once again over his eyes, and a softer, yet no less insistent voice filled his mind.

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SUMMON THE ELF.

Aragorn sighed wearily. That was a good idea. He should send for Legolas, so that his message could be delivered personally. And he could not bear to have Legolas leave without the chance of bidding him farewell.

"Caruon!" he commanded softly to the servant standing to attention outside the door. "I want this message delivered to Legolas Greenleaf, last of the Elves on Middle Earth."

*****


	2. Torn

Here is chapter 2 of my story! Thank you so incredibly much to my two reviewers, Nikki and Tiny Tiger. You made my week! *bg* This story is going to turn out A/L slash, after all (not in this chapter, though. Later). The song that Legolas sings is an old lullaby that was once sang to me. Also, can someone please tell me how to get html working here? It would be much appreciated!

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Torn

It was a moonless night. Somehow, Legolas felt more compelled to sail out over the Sea on nights such as this. It was as if he were the waves, being pulled at by the tide. He ached with his whole being, and all his Elven light to sail away and join his kindred in the West.

He shut his eyes, and felt the sea breeze try its strength against him. It sent his hair and cloak tumbling, and he could taste the salt spray on his lips. Like all Elves, Legolas was familiar with woods. He knew the spirits of the trees, and had viewed life as a celebration of their existence. Yet the song that the Sea sang to him was one older, more intimate. In its deep rumbling of the waves, the merry splash of white foam on the beach and clear rippling of the backwash, Legolas heard the voices of the sea.

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Come to us, child of the forests.

Come to us.

Come.

Legolas sighed, and shook his head in the briefest of movements.

Middle Earth was a lonely place for an Elf now. With Gimli, who had remained at the camp-fire, he had travelled to distant parts of the land, and had seen much wonder. But the Elven forests were empty. Rivendell no longer echoed with Elven-song, and Lothlorien was pale and colourless without the beauty of Galadriel. His home, Mirkwood, was full of ghosts from his childhood and when his father the King had ruled. His people were gone. Why, then, did he stay?

Another urge, as strong as the elements, bade him stay. It was stronger than the ancestral instinct of the Elves. It was born of the primeval instinct of all things that lived, and could experience emotion. 

Legolas felt as if he were a scrap of iron, torn between two lode-stones.

He wanted to be alone, to vent his longing and grief and confusion. He wanted to be held, so that this torment of being caught between two worlds would stop. Snores from Gimli told him the dwarf was soundly asleep. Legolas, smiled, then. Raising his voice in song, the Elf released some of the sorrow that lay so heavily on his heart.

On and on he sang, his melody a pulsing counter-part to the music of the Sea. It filled the moonless night with a different kind of light. Legolas rejoiced in this solitude, singing for the stars alone.

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Maiden, maiden, tell me true.

What can grow, grow without dew?  
What can burn for years and years?

What can cry and shed no tears?

Silly lad, here's the answer true:

A stone can grow, grow without dew.

Love can burn for years and years.

A heart can cry and shed no tears.

Unknown to the Elf, there were two who heard his voice. 

One, beyond the realms of distance and bound to no mortal body, heard and felt joy, if such an innocent word could be used to describe him.

The other, very much a mortal and bone-weary –despite the fact that he was a Ranger– was equally pleased, in a less sinister way.

"Legolas! Legolas Greenleaf!"

The sound of the voice caused Legolas to choke. It spoke with the accents of a Man from Gondor. Legolas' Elven eyes picked out details no other could have, in the darkness of that night. The Man was wearing the travel-stained clothing of a Ranger. A battered scabbard with an ancient sword hung at his side. His face was shadowed by a deep hood.

Legolas' heart leapt. He had waited for so long to hear that voice. _Aragorn!_ cried his heart and his mind and his soul. His hand stretched out of its own accord, wanting more than anything to touch….

The Man swung off his horse, and swept off his hood, bowing low. 

With a disappointment that made his vision shudder and blur for a moment, Legolas saw that the Man before his eyes was a stranger. 

"Who are you who seeks me thus?" queried Legolas sharply, keeping his voice steady with no little effort. Grateful for the darkness, he slowly composed his normally tranquil features. 

The stranger sagged wearily against his mount. Instantly, Legolas regretted his temper

"Forgive me, friend, for my sharpness. Come rest at our camp. We have a warm fire blazing," he added, as the night was chill.

The Man shook his head. "I swore not to rest until you had heard my message. Indeed, it has been many days since I left Gondor, and more since I rested.

'You ask who I am, to seek you thus? I am Caruon, one-time Ranger, now personal servant of King Elessar Telcontar. He bids me send a message to Legolas Greenleaf, last Elf to grace the lands of Middle Earth. In truth me heart is glad that he has done so, for I would have searched for you myself ere the full waxing of the moon had he not." Caruon paused, exhaustion and worry battling on his face.

Legolas stood very still. Fiercely, ruthlessly, he crushed the despair that rose so bitterly within him. Caruon did not seem to notice.

"King Elessar sends you a summons. He wishes to see you as soon as you can make the journey to Gondor."

Fury now, something Legolas rarely felt and even more rarely showed. 

"A summons. From the noble King of Gondor." His voice was cold.

"No," contradicted Caruon, gently, hearing the hard-held emotion in Legolas' voice. "It is in my heart that it is a fond wish between old friends."

"Kindly inform the King of Gondor that his 'old friend' is busy," Legolas said, quietly, finally. He hid his shaking hands behind his back. It had been thirteen years since he had last seen Aragorn. Thirteen years without word or message. Now, suddenly, without warning, came a summons to attend to him. Aragorn had not even bothered to come himself. He was not a wayward courtier, Legolas thought resentfully, to be called to heel at whim.

"You misunderstand me," pressed Caruon. "The King has been sorely troubled of late. The palace knows, and grieves, but we can do nothing, for he will not tell what ails him. In a few months, he has aged ten years. He removes himself from all company, and shuns even Arwen. He sleeps alone now, but he gains no rest. I have stood guard outside his doors for many nights and heard the torment of his dreams. 

'And now, he asks for you." His voice grew soft, but flinty. The light of anger appeared in his eyes. "My King will not be denied."

Legolas felt his heart lurch at this news of Aragorn, but before he could reply, he caught the look on Caruon's face. Cold rage surged in him once more. 

"He may be the King of Gondor, but he does not hold sway over all of Middle Earth. And you, my friend, are overly bold."

"And you," grated Caruon in answer, "may well be the last Elf on Middle Earth, but you will show more respect to my King!" He straightened, and touched the hilt of his sword.

Legolas understood the gesture immediately. His own blade was but a long hunting knife, but he grasped it tightly in his hand.

The two nodded in grim silence, and together walked a little from the camp, and Gimli's sleeping form. Arod raised his head questioningly, but was soothed by Legolas' soft murmur. He was unpicketted, as always, and moved further from the beach in search of peace. 

Caruon looked scornfully at the knife in Legolas' hand, before drawing the second sword that was slung over his back. This he handed to the Elf, handle first.

"First blood," he growled, and Legolas snapped "Done!" in reply.

The duel began.

Cauron, though weary was fuelled by righteous anger at the disrespect the Elf had done to his King. And Legolas was driven by the need to unleash the violent emotions which had so suddenly revealed themselves in him. 

They circled warily, each gauging the other's worth. Then, with a quickness that surprised even the Elf, Caruon struck. Legolas parried, and slashed back, and the two opponents fought on. Legolas used the fight to vent some of his anger and frustration. Caruon seemed to sense that, and remained on the defensive, letting the Elf burn his surplus energy on the attack. Legolas was surprised, and looked at the Man more thoughtfully. Sweat dripped down his face, and he was panting from the exertion. Yet he held his ground against the barrage of slashes.

Legolas was ashamed. Stepping lightly back, he put up his sword, then bowed to Caruon. His own breathing had quickened slightly, but the fight had energized him, rather than tiring him. 

"Alas, that I have attacked a friend!" cried Legolas, and he extended a hand to Caruon. "I can only say that madness must have overtaken me, for I cannot otherwise excuse my actions!"

Caruon grunted and took his hand. "It was good exercise for us both," he gasped. Then suddenly he chuckled. "But how Aragorn would have laughed, seeing us thus!"

Legolas smiled, too, and did not miss the use of Aragorn's name. "He would have told me that I was being childish again, though I am more than two thousand years older than he! You were close friends with him?" Legolas could not stop the surge of envy that coursed through him, but he tried to ignore it. Before Caruon could reply, the Elf's sharp ears caught another sound.

"Silence!" he said, and bent his will to listening to the wind. "It sounds like…." He shook his head, dismissing the thought. 

"Wolves!" exclaimed Caruon. "What ungodly beasts are roaming this stretch of land tonight?"  


"Not just wolves," said Legolas grimly. "Wargs."

The great beasts swarmed around them. They were shaggy-furred and yellowed-eyed, and froth flecked their muzzles. A low growl came from the throat of one, then all took up the hideous melody. 

Legolas was grateful for the heavy sword which Caruon had lent him for the duel. His bow and arrows were back at the campsite, and his hunting knife would have been all but useless. Instinctively, he and Caruon stood back to back, and faced the snarling Wargs.

He was unafraid, being Immortal. The duel with Caruon had whetted his appetite for action. With a cry, he slashed at the Warg nearest to him. As he cut them down, so more replaced the fallen. Legolas could hear the painful breathing of exhausted Caruon beside him. The Man had guarded Aragorn's door for many nights, then ridden near two weeks with little rest in search of Legolas. Their earlier duel had used up most of his remaining strength. A Warg flew at his throat, and he brought his sword up too slowly. Blood blossomed red, and he fell gasping to the ground. Legolas heard himself utter a cry of despair, as he half-knelt to support the fallen Man.

"We were…like…brothers," murmured Caruon, before the eternal silence took him.

Legolas brought his own sword up with greater fury, then, but the Wargs had sensed the fall of one of their enemies, and redoubled their efforts. One sank great teeth into Legolas' thigh, and tore deep gashes down to his calf. The Elf screamed in agony before cutting the throat of the attacking Warg. There were too many for him to defeat alone, and he was too far from camp for Gimli to hear any cries of help, deeply asleep as the dwarf would be.

He whistled shrilly for Arod, and the war-horse galloped up, hooves flying and teeth snapping. Legolas pulled himself on the back of the horse with difficulty, and urged the horse on. 

"Find Aragorn," he gasped, clinging tightly to Arod without any of his usual grace. Arod sensed his rider's need, and his pace soon outdistanced the following Wargs. Legolas was unable to feel relief, however, as the little light in the night shimmered and his world went black.


	3. False Dawn

Thank you to my reviewers, especially IceFire, who taught me how to get italics working! Hopefully it will be easier to read, now. As for why Legolas left Gimli behind, I don't think he had much choice, seeing as how he passed out. But maybe I didn't make that clear enough. Like I said before, please tell me if bits of my story aren't making sense. It's hard to see from my perspective, because I know what I mean to say, even if no-one else does! And the Wargs only wanted Legolas, anyway. *g* You'll see what I mean…later. I don't know where the Havens are, so I don't know where Gondor is in relation to them. Oh, well. Poetic license. 

Oh! Disclaimer: I always forget to put this part in. Would you believe me if I said that I owned Legolas and Aragorn? As much as I'd like to, they belong to JRRTolkein. Unknown characters mine. No profits, etc etc.

****

False Dawn

Aragorn was alone once more in the royal chambers. Heavy blinds had been drawn over the windows, muting the brightness of the full moon. He lay very still on the bed, with his head cradled in his arms. The headache would not abate. Its fury grew in his skull until he didn't dare move, for fear of further aggravating the pain. The herbs he had taken at first for a mild headache had not helped. Now, the sheer effort of moving to prepare a stronger decoction was too great, even if Aragorn could think of a mixture potent enough to deal with this level of agony. 

Hammers and chisels pounded mercilessly in his brain. It felt as if something made of fire and shards of steel was being crammed into his head, until Aragorn thought it would split open.

He had never experienced pain like this before.

Not even on the morning of his wedding, after having emptied nearly all the brandy casks in the palace the night before, out of sheer nerves. A strong infusion of rosemary and peppermint had done the trick, then.

Now all he could do was hold his pounding head, and breathe through the pain. All that long night, he had not uttered a sound. Aragorn did not know how to voice his pain. To scream, or whimper would have been to acknowledge defeat. Aragorn had never done that in his life. 

His eyes were made more light sensitive by the headache, and even closed, they caught the faint change in light which meant the false dawn had arrived. 

Voices sounded in the hallway outside. Aragorn head the sounds of an argument, before a fist hammered urgently on his door. 

*****

Arod was not an Elven steed, but the time he had spent in the gentle company of Legolas had resulted in a firm bond between horse and rider. He headed unerringly to toward the palace of Gondor, taking care not to throw his unconscious rider.

*****

Gimli woke with a start at dawn. He cursed as he realised he had missed his watch. Legolas must have taken it for him, he thought sourly, yet fondness was in his heart. 

"Legolas!" he bellowed. "I am not yet so old and infirm that I need an Elf to stand my watch for me!"

There was no reply. Puzzled, Gimli searched around the campsite. Legolas' bow and quiver still lay where the Elf had left them. He would not willingly leave those far behind, Gimli knew. He didn't know if it meant good or bad news, though. The dwarf's heart grew cold as he saw the scene of the battle. Black blood soaked the earth, and a body lay prostrate. Fear gripped Gimli as he hurried over and bent to stare into the face of the deceased.

It was not Legolas. It was a Man – a stranger. There was no sign of the Elf, nor Arod. Gimli frowned.

The blood belonged to Wargs, that much he could tell. He scowled darkly at the thought of their return into the world. The puzzle lay before him. The Man's throat had been torn by the Wargs. He had two empty scabbards. An ancient sword which lay nearby accounted for one of them, but search though he might. Gimli could find no trace of the other sword.

Friend or foe? Friend, Gimli decided, or the Man would have died from Legolas' knife or arrow ere he had come this close to the camp.

Glancing keenly at the disturbed earth, Gimli read the tracks. A horse –Arod, he thought– had been galloping fast to the south. These tracks were followed by the trail of many large paw prints. He thought he could make out some light footprints, where someone had mounted the horse, in the middle of battle. Legolas, then. Arod would allow no-one but Legolas and himself to ride him. 

Gimli muttered a few obscene words. Something had driven the Elf away, then. It must have been urgent, or desperate, to have caused Legolas to leave without warning him. Gimli was a Dwarf, and his kind were staunch, and practical almost to the point of pragmatism. He did not brood over Legolas' hasty departure. H did not agonize over why Legolas had not given him notice. He simply intended to find him again, and discover what had happened. Then, if the Elf was okay, Gimli would shake him hard.

First, Legolas had to be found. The dead Man looked familiar, though Gimli did not think he had seen him before. There was something in his features, and his clothing, that reminded him of Aragorn. And of Boromir, Gimli realized, his thoughts turning to his long-dead companion. The Man was from Gondor, Gimli decided. Arod had been heading south, also toward Gondor. And Gimli knew that now the Elven forests were empty, Aragorn's lands offered the most sanctuary to Legolas. 

To Gondor then. But first, there was the matter of the dead Man. Gimli gathered the driftwood from the beach, and lit a pyre around the fallen Man. He had decided that the stranger was not a foe, and Gimli would not let a friend – even one he had not met – lie to be ravaged by the elements, and worse. 

After the fire had burnt out, Gimli strapped his pack to his back. He was loath to leave Legolas' pack, but he could not carry both. He did take the Elf's bow and quiver though. 

Then Gimli scowled so fiercely that even the Wargs would have given pause. Arod was the only horse they had, as Gimli still refused to ride alone. And now that Legolas had ridden him away, Gimli knew it would take a week before he would reach Aragorn. Still scowling, Gimli set off, on foot.

*****

Legolas found that the world was behaving most strangely, when his eyes flickered open. For one thing, it was moving roughly at a great rate. For another, he was feeling…pain. Quite a lot of pain, actually, radiating from his right leg. 

As his senses cleared, Legolas realized that he was on the back of Arod, which would account for the bumpy ride. Memory of how he was injured came back, and Legolas felt something stronger than the pain flood him. Guilt.

Caruon, messenger and friend of Aragorn, was dead. People died in battle all the time, Legolas knew. People had even died in battle because he had been not fast enough with bow and arrow. But Caruon was dead because Legolas' childish temper leading to their duel, had pushed the exhausted Man beyond his endurance before the Wargs attacked. A part of his mind knew that some of the anger he had directed at the Man had sprung from despair and jealousy, that this Man might have held Aragorn's affections. Childish, and certainly unworthy of an Elf. He refused to admit it to himself, but it added further to his guilt and shame.

Over-whelmed as he was by these emotions, his Elven ability to heal was not working. Subconciously, Legolas did not want his wounds to heal. Caruon was dead because of his childishness. Legolas felt that he more than deserved to hurt, in return.

His mind fogged by guilt, pain and fever, Legolas soon slipped back onto unconsciousness.

*****

"Your Majesty! King Elessar!"

Aragorn forced himself to sit up, then stand.

"You may enter," he said, hoping they would take the hoarseness of his voice to be sleepiness. 

His men entered his chamber with a crash of the door and a clang of armour. Aragorn winced, and swallowed hard. 

"He rode in here hard, and demanded to see you – won't even get that leg of his fixed up first!" one guard offered by way of introduction. He looked apologetic.

Aragorn blinked in confusion, before his eyes fell on the form of Legolas. 

"Legolas," he breathed, eyes devouring the Elf. His clothes were torn and stained with blood. A raw and bloody would stretched from his thigh to his calf. The guard was right – the would had not been tended to at all, and infection had set in. His gaze travelled up to the Elf's face, pale with hurt and fatigue. Legolas' eyes, grey and huge, looked… tormented. He stood unsteadily, favouring his injured right leg. One of Aragorn's men had discretely put an arm around the wavering Elf's shoulders. Aragorn suspected it was all that was keeping the Elf upright.

Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a small cry as he crumpled to the floor.

*****

Author's note: As I said, I don't know where the Havens (the beach where Legolas and Gimli started off) are in relation to Gondor. I am making it to be a couple of days, by horseback. It took Caruon so long to reach Legolas not because it's particularly far, or hard to reach, but because he was _searching_ for Legolas; he didn't know exactly where the Elf was. For Gimli it will take about a week, because he will have to do it on foot.


	4. Message delivered

Legolas had slipped from unconsciousness to sleep, without passing through Elven dreams. He had not dreamed them for quite some time. They contained all the beauty of old, and something more. The sea had entered his dreams, a pulling, tugging force which beckoned him with such eloquence Legolas thought he must obey, or be driven insane with desire. 

The sunlight was warm on the bed as he lay, now awake but with eyes still closed. Legolas felt a surprising level of well-being. But Gondor was the last place on Middle Earth which held a living tribute to Elvenkind. The Men of Gondor did not forget them, and Arwen, though stripped of Immortality, did not forget the Elven songs and joys of old. 

Legolas smiled slightly, feeling comforted by even the echo of his race. The doubts and rage which had plagued him last night vanished like footprints in tide-washed sand. His thinking was clearer, and the pain in his leg had nearly subsided.

Aragorn did not miss the smile which told him the Elf was awake. 

"Legolas," he said, joy filling his voice. Until he had seen him, Aragorn did not realise how much he had missed his friend.

Legolas' eyes opened, and his gaze went straight to Aragorn's face.

"It's been some time," he replied.

"Too much time," agreed Aragorn.

Legolas eyed him sharply, noting the dark shadows beneath his eyes.

"You look terrible," he said frowning.

Aragorn barked a short laugh.

"You're hardly fit to speak!" he retorted, looking down at the injured Elf.

Legolas grinned ruefully, but refused to be sidetracked.

"What ails you, Aragorn? Caruon was right – Gods," Legolas broke off, eyes widening in remembered shock. "Aragorn…Caruon's dead….Wargs attacked us, and…."

Aragorn moved his hand; a slight gesture of dismissal. "I know that, Legolas," he said, voice suddenly remote. He turned and stared hard at Legolas, and it seemed to the Elf that his friend's eyes were the blue of the sea for a moment, before changing back to grey.

Aragorn sighed, and bowed his head with sorrow and respect for the dead. "He was a good man," he said. "The best."

The two sat in silence for a while.

"Are you well, Aragorn?" Legolas asked finally.

Aragorn was quiet for a little while longer before answering. "I am. It is you who I am concerned for, Legolas. My dreams are full of your pain. A warning grows in my heart." He paused, and their eyes met. "I do not believe it is safe for you to remain in Middle Earth any loner. You must sail for the West without delay."

He had summoned Legolas, so that he could give this warning to him. Why, now, did it taste so bitter as he spoke the words?

Legolas gasped as he had been struck. "West?" Twin desires pulled at him.

Aragorn forced himself to be strong. He could do this, for Legolas. He could, no matter how much it hurt.

"You are the last Immortal on Middle Earth, Legolas. The last link to the power of the past Ages. The light of an Elf could achieve much, if used in the right fashion."

Legolas frowned. "How do you know this?" He had felt nothing of this threat in all his journeys.

"It is enough that I know it!" snapped Aragorn, suddenly angry. "Heed my warning and leave, Legolas, before you bring darkness and worse upon –" Black lightning struck his vision, bringing the same agony of the night before.

__

DO NOT SPOIL MY GAME, NOW.

Aragorn sucked in his breath raggedly, and reached out blindly for support as the world fell from beneath his feet.

Legolas caught him as he stumbled, strong arms holding Aragorn tight.

Slowly, like ink draining from a glass, the darkness left Aragorn's vision, and he could see again.

"Aragorn," said Legolas softly, concern marking his features.

"Later," said Aragorn hoarsely. "I will explain it to you later. Be at the entrance of the Grove in an hour's time. There is a…meeting…that I must attend to now." He removed himself from Legolas' hold, and strode out of the room.

Legolas stared after him, helpless and worried.

*****

The Grove had been planted to help remember the forests of the Elves. Both Aragorn and Arwen missed them, and neither were truly satisfied with this imitation.

Legolas did not need the comparison to his ancient home to love the trees that grew here. He loved all trees, Elven-tended or not, and these young trees spoke eagerly and joyfully of tomorrow.

It had been more than an hour since Aragorn had arranged to meet him, and though Legolas was not annoyed, he was worried. He heard footsteps, and turned to find Arwen coming to him.

She was still more beautiful than any other woman or elf, but Legolas' heart almost broke when he saw her. Her Elven light was gone, if not her air of ageless wisdom. Her skin was still smooth, but Legolas' Elven eyes say the tiny worn lines that started around her eyes and her mouth. 

"Legolas!" she called to him merrily. "I have missed you so!" And abandoning dignity, she ran to him and hugged him close.

"You haven't changed at all, Arwen," he lied, stepping back to look at her closely.

Arwen laughed. "Flatterer. I have gotten older, and worn . I am mortal now, after all."

"Does the thought of dying scare you?" Legolas asked.

She shook her head. "Not while Aragorn is here, and not when he is gone, for life will be as death to me, then."

"Do you know why he summoned me, Arwen? For thirteen long years, I heard not a word from him, and suddenly, he tells me that I must sail West."

Arwen frowned. "I did not know he told you to go West. He has been acting strangely of late." She shook her head. "I cannot place it. He is distant, and when he is with us, his thoughts seem to be far away, or drawn deep inside himself. I am afraid that…." She took a deep breath. "Aragorn is mortal, Legolas, and born mortal. We have had one hundred and ten blessed years together. I am wondering whether if this is the extent of our blessing."

Legolas did not answer. A new fear, never before conceived, grew in his heart. Aragorn, old? He had not thought of it before. Aragorn, to him, seemed as ageless as the Elves, as lasting as the sea.

Arwen gave another small laugh, though this time it held no mirth. "But I knew that when I promised to cleave to him, and I would not change that if I could. It's just…I didn't know it would be so hard…." He voice cracked slightly, before she controlled it.

"There are new clothes laid out for you in your room, Legolas, so you may change out of these travelling clothes. We will be dining in less than an hour." Arwen smiled warmly at him before returning to the palace.

Legolas barely heard her. He had cursed his dilemma before, caught seemingly forever between two desires. He had never considered Aragorn growing old and passing from this life before he could chose, even as he realised he was a fool for ignoring what should have been obvious.

He was thinking so hard that he did not notice the silent figure creeping after him. A booted foot caught him solidly in the chest, and another kick snapped at the side of his head.

Legolas reached for his knife, when he belatedly realised that it was still lying at their camp by the sea.

Still, a weaponless Elf was not a defenseless one. Legolas blocked the next kick from his attacker – aimed low, to knock his feet out from under him – and sent one back at the man's head.

Aragorn grunted, then stepped smoothly back. Anduril suddenly gleamed in the sunlight.

Disbelief barely had time to fill Legolas before the blade slashed at his torso.

Deep blue eyes stared deep into his own, as Legolas sidestepped, and began fighting desperately, hand and foot against a merciless steel blade.


	5. The Madness of the King

"Aragorn!" shouted Legolas. "What are you doing?"

Aragorn did not answer, but Anduril flicked out past Legolas' guard to open a line of red on his cheek. 

"Have you gone completely insane?" he snapped at his friend. Elven reflexes stopped the blade from slitting his throat. 

Hard blue eyes glittered with determination. Aragorn's attack increased in ferocity and speed. Legolas found that he was hard pressed to defend himself. His leg was nearly healed, but he was still tired. And Aragorn had never been easy to defeat. 

"What has gotten into you?" Legolas panted, sweat beginning to slip through his hair and run down his face. 

Aragorn did not answer – that was the unnerving thing, Legolas thought. He was distressed, but not desperate. Calming his thoughts, he opened up the part of his mind which was connected to the Elven Dreams. Like all Elves, he could walk these paths whether he was asleep or awake. Being here when awake gave him access to greater powers, but was more draining on the body. 

Legolas felt as if he had truly opened his eyes when he stepped into the dream world. The singing of the sea was still there, haunting and painfully sad. He ignored it as best he could, as he focused his renewed energies on keeping Anduril from marking him again.

This was why Elves were such highly skilled warriors – immersed in the Dream, they possessed sharper senses, and sensations such as pain or emotion could be pushed aside.

Legolas' enhanced eyes picked up a shadow lurking behind Aragorn's form, and he shifted to the left, wanting to avoid another attacker. 

If the shadow had wielded a blade, the move would have saved Legolas' life. But even as he moved out of its way, Legolas realised that the blur existed only in the Dream. Caught off-balance by the anticipation of a foe that was not there to meet him, Legolas stumbled, and Anduril slid smoothly into his side.

Warm blood spilled down, soaking through the shirt that he wore. Legolas gasped, and instinctively pressed a hand to his right side. He sank to one knee, and saw the gleam of triumph appear in his opponent's cold blue eyes. But in the Elven Dream as he was, Legolas did not feel the pain of his wound. As Aragorn moved in to make the killing move, Legolas spun on his knee, using the other leg in a powerful kick to the stomach which brought Aragorn groaning to the ground. 

Legolas' Elven training of the Dream world kicked in. He did not know what the shadow was that did not exist in the physical world, but he knew it should not be in the dream, either. And he knew how to stop it.

He sent a blast of Elven energy at the darkness, which shuddered as the force impacted. Breathing hard now, Legolas summoned up all his will and sent another explosion of light. 

Legolas felt as though he had double vision. With his dream senses, he saw the shadow waver, flickering like a candle caught in strong wind. And in the physical world, he saw Aragorn convulse as the darkness faded.

Aragorn staggered to his feet, and screamed, a gut-wrenching scream that made the hairs on Legolas' neck stand on end. Without a second glance at the Elf, Aragorn turned and ran back toward the palace.

Slowly and carefully, Legolas closed the gateway in his mind between the Dream and the physical world. A slight wave of dizziness washed over him – he had not used these powers in too long. Just those two blasts of energy had exhausted him to the point where he did not want to move. But the blood was still running unchecked down his side, and Aragorn in his present state was a danger both to himself and to others.

Placing one hand on a tree trunk for support, Legolas dragged himself to his feet. His mind was whirling. What was the shadow in the Dream? He did not know of anything that could reach that plane, unless it was directly connected to the Elves. The longing of the Sea, although intrusive, Legolas accepted as the calling of his race. But this….Legolas frowned, troubled. The shadow had the feeling of evil.

He, and the rest of Middle Earth, had believed that Sauron had perished with the destruction of the One Ring. What then, was this presence? Sauron returned, or a new evil plaguing the land?

Fear clawed at Legolas in a way he had never experienced before, as he half ran, half staggered towards the palace. What did this force want with Aragorn? For Legolas could not believe that Aragorn had chosen this path for himself. 

The palace was in complete turmoil when Legolas arrived. Bodies and blood littered the entrance. Sounds of a battle rang from within one of the chamber, and people were flocking towards it.

Someone screamed as the clashing of swords ceased, then again, in a long, harsh breath that would not end. Legolas' heart froze. It was Aragorn.

He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the angry and concerned stares he was receiving. 

"Aragorn!" he called. His friend was being restrained by eight Guards, and thrashing against their firm hold. His blue eyes were open wide with fury, he snarled as Legolas approached.

"What's wrong with him?" cried a second voice, and Arwen ran to comfort her husband. As she came close, Aragorn threw his strength against the guards, and almost lashed out at Arwen with Anduril.

"He's gone crazy!" the captain of the Guards exclaimed. "He ran in here and suddenly started attacking us with Anduril!"

Legolas saw that Aragorn's hand still grasped his sword very firmly. Muscle and cord stood out on his arm, and his knuckles were white. The Guards hadn't been able to take it from him, even though they had managed to restrain him.

"Call a healer!" he said, voice choking slightly from blood loss and from the sight of Aragorn like that. "Tell him to bring the power of poppy seeds."

A young acolyte arrived breathlessly, running with a paper package of white powder. Taking care not to inhale any himself, Legolas blew the white dust over Aragorn. The man's surprised intake of breath caused him to inhale a large amount of the powder. Even as Aragorn glared at Legolas, his eyes clouded over, and he slipped to the ground, unconscious.

"Get him to his room," Legolas ordered. He followed more slowly as the unconscious king was carried up the stairs. The blood on his side was sticky now, and less was trickling from the wound. His Elven healing seemed to work faster in Gondor, Legolas thought. For the moment, he was grateful that he had a dark coloured shirt on. The blood was still noticeable, but less so, and he did not want to be distracted by concerned people until he was sure that Aragorn was safe, for the moment at least.

Even unconscious, Aragorn's grip on Anduril remained firm. The Guards were trying to pry it from his hand, fearful that he would hurt himself. But Aragorn would not relax his hand. Legolas placed his own hand on his friend's feeling the rock hard flexing of the muscles. Aragorn's hand had cramped around the hilt, so that even though he was not awake, he could not let go.

Legolas opened the gateway to the Dream once more, reaching into the vast sea of Elven light. He focused some of this light onto Aragorn, calming his mind and relaxing the muscles of his hand. Legolas was surprised to see how well this technique worked – Aragorn seemed to soak up the light. Usually Elven healing did not work as quickly on humans, as they were removed from the Dream and the power of the Elves. 

With a sigh, Aragorn released Anduril, and a Guard gently and quickly slipped it from the king's now-limp hand. Legolas used just a little more of the light to ensure that Aragorn would rest well, and not be bothered by the shadow for a day or two at least, then tiredly closed the gateway.

"He will sleep easily now," he told the worried guards. Arwen nodded. She had been an expert in the Elven Dream before she had given up her immortality. She knew what it was that Legolas had done for Aragorn. 

"Legolas and I will watch over him, for now," she said in her gentle, quiet voice. True to the stoic Elrond, she betrayed no further hint of anxiousness or fear. "I will send for you if I need you. Have a maid bring some food and drink for two." Her eyes looked sharply at Legolas for a moment. "And some healing herbs, and bandages. You are dismissed."

The Guards and servants bowed low, and left.

"Let me see that gash," Arwen said. Legolas took his shirt off with some difficulty. 

"What is wrong with him?" she asked a little fearfully, as she cleaned it the wound gently.

"There was…a shadow in the Dream, Arwen."

"A shadow?" Her voice was worried, and she paused from the poultice she was making from comfery, hops and elderflower. "There is nothing in the Dream that is not Elven! That is impossible."

"I know. I thought so too. But it was there. Behind Aragorn, when he went insane and began attacking me. I called the Elven light on it, and he ran from me, into the palace." He shook his head, laughing unsteadily. "I admit now, you were always better at navigating the Dream than I was. Just that effort took.…" Legolas looked down. "Nearly more strength than I had within me."

Arwen was. It had been long since she had walked the path of the Elven Dream. "But you will be strong enough," she said at last, and it was not a question. 

Legolas nodded. "For Aragorn, always." Then for some reason, he flushed. Arwen didn't notice, as she tied white linen bandages around his side.

"There," she said at last. "You will mend fast."  
  
"I know," he said. "I'm an Elf."

She smiled a small, sad smile at him.

*****

__

Thank you as always to the people who reviewed! This story is turning out different to what I thought it would when I started, but I do know where it's heading. And it's so much fun to write! Please keep reviewing, because your reviews do mean a lot to me! I'm not going to say "I'm not writing any more unless I get XXX reviews!" because firstly, I doubt that many people would seriously care *l* and secondly, I like writing this just for writing this. So as long as I have time and motivation I want to keep writing. I just want to know that someone out there is reading my stuff. One word in a review will be fine…just let me know that readers **are**_ out there!_


	6. Seeing Stone

__

Disclaimer: I know I keep forgetting this part. None of the characters are mine. The flashback scene is from RotK. No profits, just fun.

The night was quiet in Gondor. A breeze stirred fitfully outside the walls, then was still. The air was warm and thick. Summer constellations spanned the cloudless sky. 

Aragorn slept, in a semblance of peace. 

Legolas and Arwen sat like small children by the glass doors that opened to a grand balcony. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, and her chin rested despondently on her knees. He twisted so he was lying on his good side on the carpet, head cradled in the crook of his elbow.

"What made him do that?" Her voice was soft, exhausted by tears that she never let fall.

Legolas moved in the briefest of shrugs. He was nearly asleep from the warm night and the weariness of the days events. "Dream," he mumbled.

"Will it happen again? What did the Dream look like, Legolas?"

He grunted in reply, not wanting to take the effort to speak. He was so sleepy….

"Legolas!" Arwen reached out and shook him gently. "Please."

He sighed, and rolled over on his back, so that he could see both her and Aragorn. He had never been able to deny Arwen anything. The movement helped him wake a little, and he obligingly studied the problem they faced. 

"There is…something evil in there. Controlling him, I think. How?" Legolas shrugged again, and made a non-committal sound. He really was too sleepy to be thinking hard.

Arwen's eyes, huge with hurt and fear, urged him on. 

"I don't know what it wants. I thought evil was gone, Arwen. I thought that's what Frodo gave up…everything…for. If there's a new evil, will there be a new Fellowship? The heroes of the last Age have faded. No Elves. No more Elves," he mused drowsily. "Hobbits? Dwarves? I don't think they want to come out into the world anymore. Jus' men, now," he stated, nodding. 

"How long will your light hold back the shadows from him, Legolas?" Arwen asked, the tenseness in her voice sharply contrasting with his sluggish tone.

"'Bout day. Two?" His eyes slid closed. He didn't see the urgency. They could do something tomorrow. Some rest would help him think more clearly, anyway, Legolas thought as his breathing grew deep and rhythmic.

Something brushed across his lips. A cup, with a pungent smelling liquid. Legolas turned away from the bitter aroma that hung in the air. 

"Drink, Legolas," Arwen urged, and he obediently took a small sip.

It tasted foul and had an oily texture, and seemed to vanish from his tongue before he could even swallow. Fire roared through his body, scorching away any tiredness that he had had. His eyes snapped open, and his thinking was no longer fuzzy.

"What was that, Arwen?" he exclaimed, sitting up. Legolas couldn't understand why he had been so tired. Energy buzzed in him.

"Sycaroot. I used to take it to help me study the Dream. It combats the fatigue, in a fashion."

Legolas knew of sycaroot only by name. He was fascinated by the herb. The cup was tiny, and he hadn't had more than a taste, but he felt as though he had rested for months. Arwen had been a master of the Dream, like her father. In fact, she had been his teacher for many years, when he had been a scholar.

"A thought occurred to me," he said suddenly. "The Dream is said to be only accessible by Elves. Yet there is another presence there, certainly not Elvish. And I believe that Aragorn can travel the Dream too, if imperfectly."  
  
Arwen's eyes grew wider in surprise. "He has not said a word of that to me!"

Legolas shook his head. "I don't think he knows. Or, he might know, but he's not doing it consciously. It's more likely that he's entering it through another medium."

"There is nothing that can reach the Elven Dream save an Elvish mind!" Arwen said, shocked. 

"Elves have always thought of the Dream as Elven. But what if it's not, Arwen? What if it's just a place, like Gondor or Arnor? There to be inhabited, but also there to be conquered, if you will."

Arwen bit her lip, as she hadn't in thousands of years, trying to digest this knowledge. "What else could reach it, then?"

"I think Galadriel's mirror and the palantir of old used the planes of the Dream. But where Galadriel's mirror acted as a window, the palantir acted…act as a gateway."

"Aragorn…he is the Master of the Orthanc! Surely it could not turn on him!" 

Legolas remembered the day that the King Elessar had struggled with the Orthanc Stone.

***flashback***

__

Together they went back into the Burg; yet for some time Aragorn sat silent at the table in the hall, and the others waited for him to speak. 

'Come!' said Legolas at last. 'Speak and be comforted, and shake off the shadow! What has happened since we came back to this grim place in the grey morning?'

'A struggle somewhat grimmer for my part than the battle of the Hornburg,' answered Aragorn. 'I have looked in the Stone of Orthanc, my friends.'

'You have looked in that accursed stone of wizardry!' exclaimed Gimli with fear and astonishment in his face. 'Did you say aught to - him? Even Gandalf feared that encounter.'

'You forget to whom you speak,' said Aragorn sternly, and his eyes glinted. 'Did I not openly proclaim my title before the doors of Edoras? What do you fear that I should say to him? Nay, Gimli,' he said in a softer voice, and the grimness left his face, and he looked like one who has laboured in sleepless pain for many nights. 'Nay, my friends, I am the lawful master of the Stone, and I had both the right and the strength to use it, or so I judged. The right 

cannot be doubted. The strength was enough - barely.'

***end flashback***

Arwen's hands flew to her mouth in horror.

"Aragorn was right," Legolas continued. "He had the strength to best Sauron in that encounter – just. But he kept throwing his strength against the palantir. He is untrained, and strength in that field cannot be gained by practice. Slowly, the darkness that lies in the palantir has been soaking into him. The first battle was hard - "_A struggle somewhat grimmer for my part than the battle of the Hornburg_," he said to me. The final battle will be a thousand times harder."

A sob came from Arwen, but she took a deep breath, and refused to let the tears flow.

"I will not cry while yet there is hope," she said, sounding like the Arwen of old. "The palantir will be destroyed immediately."

Legolas shook his head again. "Wormtongue threw it at us from the top of Orthanc, and it did not so much as chip. I am thinking it needs to be destroyed in a similar way to the Ring – let what made it unmake it." He fell silent. "But we have not that strength left in the world, even if I knew where the Orthanc could be unmade."

"What can we do, then?" Arwen was grim. She refused to let the thought of defeat enter her mind.

"I honestly do not know, Arwen. Tonight I will enter the dream again, and hope to find some better answers there. But one thing is clear to me." Legolas looked at Arwen steadily. "He cannot remain in Gondor. Not while the…shadow…plagues him. He is a danger to Gondor, and to himself."

He expected tears, or heartbreak, but Arwen stood proudly in the moonlight. "As long as you bring him safely back to me, Legolas."

He wordlessly reached out to her, and the two old friends embraced, sharing silently their pain.

Arwen did not think she could bear the thought of Aragorn leaving. But the thought of him being overtaken by shadow helped her keep strong.

Legolas was surprised. "You are not arguing with me? I would have thought you would have insisted to come, at the least."  
  
"I do not argue when you speak sense, Legolas Greenleaf," she retorted, sounding haughty.

"I do not recall that being the case when we first met," he countered, and they laughed softly together.

"Could we ever have imagined, as children, that this was to be our fate?" Arwen mused quietly.

__

Caught like leaves in the whirlpool that is Aragorn, thought Legolas, but he did not speak. _Fated to love him, fated to die for him_.

And Arwen did not notice Legolas' silence because inside, her heart was weeping for the man that she loved more than life itself.

****


	7. Leaving

Aragorn understood immediately when Legolas suggested that he leave Gondor for awhile. He was a danger to his people. The day before seemed like a dream to him, but the funeral preparations going on outside his chambers offered firm proof. He had slain seven of his men in madness. How could he face his people again?  
  
"They will forgive you, for ever you have been their loving and gentle king," Legolas said, and Aragorn realised that he had spoken aloud. "A new evil has risen in Middle Earth. We journey not to flee from your guilt, but to uncover its roots."

Legolas knew he stretched the truth there, slightly. They _were_ going to minimize the harm that Aragorn could cause others. But he did not need to speak that to Aragorn.

"You should leave at nightfall," Arwen said. "All has been arranged."

"I do not like the idea of Aragorn sneaking away," Legolas protested. "He is their King. They will understand."

"Arwen is right," Aragorn told him. "I cannot expect them to understand…not yet."

"My heart wishes that I could accompany you, my love," Arwen whispered to him. "But of what use would I be? I can no longer travel the paths of the Dream. And I am needed in the kingdom, now that its king has marched to war."  
  
Aragorn laughed bitterly. "War, beloved?"

He was surprised to see Legolas and Arwen regarding him with serious eyes. 

"A war like which as never been seen on Middle Earth before," Legolas told him. "This is a war of the spirit, not of the flesh. Yet something tells me it will have the greatest consequence of all."

His journey of the Dream had been…unnerving. Legolas had put the feeling to the longing of the sea, before, but now he sensed more clearly a brooding and growing darkness. Something was gathering strength, hidden in the folds and twists of the Dream.

"And no warriors are there left, save Legolas and yourself," Arwen said gravely. "For since the departure of the Elves, no others can safely enter the realm of the Dream."

Aragorn had been shocked to learn that the palantir had been a gateway to the Dream. Yet another part of him had already known. He remembered the dark dreams which haunted him, the voices which gave him no peace. Foreboding grew in him.

"Let us go, then," he said sternly, and suddenly Legolas was reminded of Strider of old. "By death shall we amend the deeds we have caused in life."

Arwen took a step toward him, and for a moment Aragorn believed that she was about to strike him.

"Never say that!" she said, her voice low but firm. "Never seek death, Aragorn. By doing so you mock the blessing that is our union!"

Arwen placed slender hands on his face, and drew him in to a sweet kiss. "Be well, my love. Be well, old friend," she said to Legolas fondly, and kissed him on the cheek.

She did not join them as they took their horses from the stable, and walked them to the side gate. But a still and solemn figure stood on a high balcony to give silent blessing over their departure.

*****

For the most part, their ride that night was a silent one. Legolas' mind turned over the events frantically, searching them again and again for a hint of logic of pattern. In a small woven pouch at his belt lay all of the herb sycaroot that Arwen still had. It was not cultivated anymore, since the Elves had left, and neither were sure that it still grew upon Middle Earth. Even in the days of the Elves, the plant had been rare. Its healing properties only worked against the fatigue caused by working in the dream with a waking body, and so was not highly valued as a medicine. Arwen had explained the preparatory method to him: take a small piece of the dried root, and boil it down in half a cup of strong spirits until it was reduced to less than a spoonful. This resulted in the decoction that she had given him earlier.

Legolas also worried about Gimli. He had not seen his friend since the night of the Warg attack, and though he believed Gimli was more than a match for the Wargs, he did not know what had become of the dwarf. Aragorn and Arwen shared his concern, but believed that Gimli would most likely search for Legolas in Gondor. Arwen would receive him when he arrived, but there was no method to send word to Legolas. 

The same worry nagged at Aragorn. They were effectively cut off from the world now. It would be too risky to send messengers to Gondor, and Arwen would not know where to find him. In truth, he did not know where he and Legolas were heading. The problem irked him. As king, he had grown used to having a large network of correspondents. And slow, stately rides, he thought ruefully, as he began to feel the galloping of the horses. 

He was decidedly stiff when they dismounted in the warm, grey light of dawn for rest.

Legolas laughed as Aragorn limped about the camp. "I'd never thought to see Strider be sore from a horse!" he chuckled. "You remind me of Gimli."

Aragorn shot him an irritated glare, which only served to increase Legolas' mirth.

"It has been many a year since someone recalled the name of Strider!" Aragorn said. "And longer since Strider roamed freely in the Wild." He looked at the laughing Elf, with his sparkling eyes and lips curved in a delicious smile. Warmth settled somewhere deep inside him.

"It shall be as it used to be, then," Legolas agreed. "The Fellowship is off again to save Middle Earth, and noble Strider shall lead us."

__

Only Strider is old now, thought Aragorn, _and if you have been untouched by age, something still lies heavy on your countenance. Strange, that the fate of the world should lie in the hands of two winter warriors*_

"You are cheerful for someone who does not know what he has gotten himself into!" was all that he remarked.

"It is not the nature of Elves to despair," Legolas told him. "Now sleep, Aragorn, and I will stand watch."  
  
Aragorn arched an eyebrow. "I thought it was to be as the days of old? Then you know that the first watch was ever mine."

Legolas looked sharply at him, but detected no uneasy sign. "Wake me at mid-morning," he said.

Aragorn nodded. "And, Legolas. Do not enter the Dream, even in sleep today. It is taxing on your body, and I suspect that we shall have need of your strength ere long."

Legolas conceeded, if reluctantly, to Aragorn's logic. 

Aragorn sat in silence, listening to the rhythm of Legolas' breathing change until it grew deep and steady. Their camp was secure. A steep cliff rose behind them, protecting their back. They had found a fold in the unyielding line of rock, and had made camp there. To prying eyes, they would have been invisible.

He checked once again to see that Legolas was truly asleep. The blond archer did not respond to Aragorn's gentle touch on his cheek. Aragorn was satisfied. He settled himself cross-legged on the grass. The reins of his mount were looped around his wrist. Should he remain still too long, the horse would jerk him out of sleep or trance.

Carefully, Aragorn opened in his mind the gateway to the paths of the Elven Dream.


End file.
